


Every Picture Tells a Story

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-05
Updated: 2008-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Post Season Five.<br/>Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)<br/>Prompt: A Picture Paints a Thousand Words</p>
    </blockquote>





	Every Picture Tells a Story

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five.  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

I'm supposed to be working on some rudimentary sketches for the next issue of _Rage_, but mostly I'm watching Brian lounging on the floor with Gus, engrossed in a heated game of Checkers. The game is Gus's newest obsession, and he can't get enough of moving those little round pieces around the board. I swear my fingers are aching from all the games I played with him this afternoon.

"Got ya!" Gus shouts triumphantly. I smile and watch him reach out his hand to seize one of Brian's black tiles.

"A dastardly sneaky move," Brian says, eyes narrowing.

Gus just giggles. "Your turn, Daddy!"

Between listening to them banter and tease back and forth, and glancing up to watch Gus flounce his father in the games, I only manage to get one panel minimally outlined. Michael is not going to be impressed. But as I fold up my sketchbook, I just can't call it a wasted night. Not when I get to see Brian interacting one on one with his son.

"Bedtime," Brian finally tells the boy.

Gus yawns hugely, then pouts. "But I'm not tired!"

"Right," Brian says. He gets up from the floor, then swings Gus effortlessly up and onto his shoulders. Gus's pout immediately switches to a grin. I rise from the sofa just as Brian passes me, and Gus leans down to give me a quick kiss and a good night. Brian's kiss is significantly longer.

As Brian tucks his son in, I look around the room and consider cleaning up the mess. Gus's half-finished milk and the crumbs of his cookies are still on the coffee table; the checkerboard and pieces lay strewn about on the floor; and Gus's bulging overnight backpack has spilled out papers and crayons and a plethora of dinky cars. But I slump back down on the sofa instead. I could care less if all that stuff stayed there until the morning… hell, I could handle it staying there until next week. But it'll drive Brian fucking insane.

And sure enough, when Brian comes downstairs fifteen minutes later, he heads immediately to the checkerboard. Picks up all the pieces and plops them and the board in their box, which he places immediately on the low bookcase that we'd bought for the game room exclusively for Gus's toys. He stacks the milk glass on top of the empty plate, then moves fluidly to Gus's backpack and starts putting it in some semblance of order.

It's kind of nice living with a neat freak.

I grab the remote and switch on A&amp;E. Immediately I'm engrossed in the latest investigation on _Cold Case Files_. So much so that it takes a moment to realize that Brian has said my name.

I try to keep one eye on the television while looking back over my shoulder at him. This is harder than it should be. But I can see he's looking down at a paper in his hand, his brow creased. "What?"

He looks up at me then, his face so serious. "I think you should come look at this," he says evenly.

I blink. Drop the remote on the sofa cushion and cross the room. We bend our heads together to look at the drawing from Gus's backpack.

Two tall figures, one dark haired and one with a profusion of yellow crayoned hair, stand at the left hand side of the paper, holding three-fingered hands and smiling. At the right side of the paper, a small figure carrying an even smaller white lump -- a pillow -- is walking toward them. He's wearing green shoes and a big grin. There's a bright orange sun shining in the middle of the drawing, and happy faces cluttering the space between little boy and tall men.

The entire drawing has been overlaid with the strong strokes of a black crayon, a mass of angry scribbles.

I meet Brian's eyes worriedly. "We've got to talk to him."

"Fuck that," Brian says. He shoves the drawing back into the middle of the pile where it came from, shoves the entire mess back into Gus's backpack. "I'll mention it to Lindsay. _She_ can talk to him."

"We can't fob this off on Lindsay," I say reasonably.

"Oh," Brian says, "yes we can."

"Brian--"

"There's a reason I only make cameo appearances in the kid's life," Brian says. He drops the backpack on the floor and walks away, past me, to go behind the bar; reaches for the Beam on the high shelf were we keep it, away from inquisitive fingers. He pours out a healthy shot into a highball glass and watches the liquid swirl around the bottom of the tumbler. "It's not my job to deal with this kind of shit. She wanted the kid."

I walk across the room and snatch the drink out of his grasp just as he raises it to his mouth. I ignore both his scowl and his attempt to steal it back. "I know you used to be quite fond of your job as understudy," I tell him, "but that was a long time ago. Look around, Brian. Now we have outlet covers concealing all the exposed outlets and child proof locks on the kitchen cupboards. We keep the booze where only adults can reach it and there are no breakable items on the lower shelves in the study." I put the drink down on the long oak bar and raise my arms, resting my hands on his shoulders. "I'm afraid to tell you this, but you've been promoted to one of the leading roles."

Brian eases himself down onto one of the brown leather bar stools. Wipes his hand over his mouth. "When did that happen?"

"Right around the time you said you wanted to be more active in Gus's life," I tell him.

He shakes his head. "I vaguely remember that."

"You remember it more than vaguely," I counter. I slide around behind the bar stool and knead his shoulders, then lean down to press my lips lightly against his neck. His stubble scratches against my lips. "You've done it," I tell him. "But that shouldn't be a surprise. You always do whatever you set out to do."

"But-- I didn't even want a kid." He laughs, a little shakily. "You should have heard Lindsay trying to talk me into it. She said everything I wanted to hear. How handsome I am, how intelligent, how wise, how sexy. How those genetic traits shouldn't be wasted just because I'd never have a child the traditional way."

"So you gave in."

He nods. "Jerked off in a cup at some lesbo clinic," he says. He spins on the stool and faces me, holding up one finger. "Only took me one try."

"To jerk off?" I tease.

"To get her pregnant," Brian says indignantly.

I school my face into a mask of solemnity. "Of course," I say.

"I didn't know what I was doing," Brian insists. "I was fucked up on one of Anita's concoctions. She took advantage of me in my weakened state."

I frown. "Anita?"

"Lindsay!" Brian says irritably. "Will you follow along?"

I press my lips together. "Sorry."

"The next thing I knew, it was nine months later. And she had this squirmy red little thing."

I remember my first sight of Gus, cradled in Lindsay's arms. He _was_ red, and squirmy, but I also remember the soft brown down of his hair, and the way his little fingers already reached out for someone to hold on to. I remember the look in Brian's eyes when he held Gus for the first time.

"He was cute," I say.

Brian looks up at me, as if suddenly remembering that this is the part of the story where I came along. He gives me a wicked little smile. "I was more interested in getting you home so I could fuck the shit out of you than in some squalling brat."

"So I'd always remember you," I say, "no matter where I was or who I was with."

Brian sighs. "Something like that."

"Well," I tell him, giving his shoulder one final squeeze before straightening, "that was five years ago. Lindsay became a mother that night. It just took you a little longer to catch up."

"What are you talking about?"

"Congratulations," I say. "You're a father."

* * *

Neither one of us have the slightest idea how to broach a sensitive subject with a five and a half year old, and Brian has always refused to talk down to his son at any rate. So after a breakfast of Cheerios and toast for Gus and I, and several large mugs of sugar-laden coffee for Brian, we merely bring the drawing out and lay it across the breakfast table.

"Gus," Brian says, keeping his tone light, "what's this?"

Gus squirms a little in his chair. "That's just stupid, Daddy," he says. "You can throw it in the garbage."

"Okay then," Brian says brightly, straightening. "We'll just--"

"Brian," I warn.

Brian sighs. He leans forward to cross his hands at the table.

"Gus," I try, "do you want to tell us why you scribbled on the drawing?"

"No," Gus says.

I look at Brian helplessly. This raising a child thing is hard work.

"Okay," Brian says. "Let's try this. Do you know why Justin and I didn't get married?"

Gus looks at the table. "Yes," he whispers.

"Okay then, you know that--"

"Wait," I interrupt. "Why, Gus?"

"Can I go outside and play now?"

"No," Brian answers firmly. "Answer Justin's question."

"Because… because you don't love each other no more!" Gus bursts out. His eyes -- so like Brian's -- brim with unshed tears.

I blink. "What? No, Gus. No. I love your Daddy very much."

Gus looks up at me hopefully. "You do?"

"I do."

I glance at Brian meaningfully, and he flashes me a put upon look and clears his throat. "And," he says… and his voice cracks. He clears his throat again while Gus watches him carefully and I struggle to keep the smirk off my face. "And I love Justin very much," he finally manages to get out.

Gus nods, satisfied with that much at least. "Then why didn't you get married? Carrie says that if you love each other then you have to get married. I'm not going to marry her, though. She's icky and she smells funny."

I raise my eyebrows, and Brian shrugs.

"You don't have to get married when you love each other, Gus," Brian says.

"Why not?" he says.

Brian looks at me. "I'll let you field this one, Sunshine," he says, and Gus turns his expectant little face in my direction. It didn't take Brian long to get back at me for making him admit his love in front of his five year old son. Bastard.

"Well," I begin slowly, "because… because love and marriage aren't the same thing. Love means… taking care of each other, and laughing together, and forgiving each other. It means being there for each other, no matter what. And we can do that whether we're married or not."

"But you live all the way away in some other country," Gus protests.

I press my lips together to hide my grin. "New York isn't very far away," I tell the boy reasonably. "And I come here all the time to see Daddy, right?"

Gus looks at me, head cocked. "Yeahhhh…"

"And Daddy comes to New York all the time to visit me, too."

Gus cocks his head in Brian's direction, and Brian nods his affirmation.

"So we're together, and we love each other," I finish. "And we always will. So you have nothing to worry about, okay?"

"Okay," Gus says happily. "Can I go outside and play now?"

"Sure," Brian says with a sigh of relief.

Gus swings down from the table and gallops toward the patio doors before spinning back on his heels. He looks at Brian critically. "But you are going to marry Justin someday, right Daddy?"

"Yes," Brian answers immediately. He looks over at me, watches me from beneath lowered lashes. "I kept the rings."

"Good," Gus says as he darts out the door and into the bright morning sunshine.

And I lose my breath in a rush. Brian never lies to Gus, either.


End file.
